The Bad Days
by kiwi-fruit-from-hell
Summary: The low points of House and Wilson's lives, and their screwedup morethanjust friendship. Rated for language.
1. Chapter 1

Part one of two. Please R&R.

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His hands trembled as he fought with the lid of the pill bottle, and the fingers that sometimes seemed so elegant, so graceful and controlled spasmodically pulled against plastic in a random motion of frenzy. Muttered curses began growing in volume.

"Here, let me." Wilson reached out slowly to take the bottle, and just as he expected, House smacked his hand away.

"Mommy, _back off_." He looked at the only other person in the room momentarily, before turned back to the pills. "Stupid fucking piece of shit…"

Wilson hated this. Hated these moments when House lost control of it all, hated seeing him helpless…hated that he was the one who had to deal with it when really it was all out of his control. Uneaten pizza was on the table, turning cold and congealing. He had thought it would be like this tonight. When House asked him to come over he said "please"; that could never be a good sign. He had been jittery and tense since Wilson arrived, and it was just getting worse. "House, just let me do it for god's sake." He snatched the smooth container away and popped the lid. He handed one tablet to House, then checked the label to make sure that it really should be near empty.

"I'm not quite that self-pitying yet." House said, in a tone that was half way between snarky and snarling.

"Are you ok?" Wilson knew he hated that question, but could think of nothing else to say.

"I'm fine."

Wilson sighed. "Is your leg worse than usual?"

"Walked too much without my cane today." He spoke quietly, staring at a blank spot on the wall, half closing his eyes as the Vicodin began covering the pain in his leg with a fuzzy glow.

"You know you shouldn't –"

"And you know you should be at home with your wife."

"Then maybe you shouldn't have called me."

"Hey, it's not my guilty conscience, and it's not gonna be my alimony payments." House said sharply. "Anyway, you can go home now, I don't need you here."

"Ok." Wilson rose and stared down at House with a challenge in his eyes. "You're not going to show me out?"

House glared back momentarily, then levered himself out of the chair, putting his weight onto the cane. He took one step, accompanied with a sharp intake of breath, before lifting his cane and throwing it (at the wall or at Wilson, the oncologist didn't know) as he crumpled back onto the couch. His eyes were squeezed shut and his lip held tightly between his teeth. When he opened his mouth to draw in a ragged gulp of air, Wilson saw beads of blood. He abandoned all thoughts of going home and nervously hovered around, trying to decide what to do.

Wilson went with instinct and sat down next to him. He reached out a hand and touched Greg's cheek. "House…"

"I'm ok" was the hoarse, whispered reply.

"No, you're not," said Wilson gently.

"I just need to rest."

"You shouldn't be in this much pain. Will you let me check you over?"

House shook his head. "Give me another Vicodin and I'll be fine."

Wilson lifted the pill bottle from the table and tossed it over in his hand. He then put the Vicodin on the piano, on the other side of the room and well out of House's reach. "Now you won't be fine. Let me see your leg."

"No."

"Then you won't get the Vicodin back until you can walk across the room to get it. In fact…" Wilson picked up House's cane, which was lying on the floor just a few feet away, and moved it over to the piano with the pills. "You won't get the Vicodin back until you are so fine you don't even need a cane."

"Son of a bitch."

"Take your pants off, House."

Wilson's hands were gentle and cool, they moved with the detached skill of a doctor. House felt thoroughly humiliated, still unable to move from the couch, his pants pulled down to his knees with his best friend probing and prodding at him like he was some sort of alien specimen. He tilted his head back and looked at the ceiling, trying to stop himself from studying the scar on his thigh, the pathetic dead tissue around it. "Wilson, stop it."

"It's ok, I'm nearly done."

"Don't talk to me like a fucking patient! Just stop."

"House, calm down. Now, does this hurt?" Wilson asked in a voice as cool and gentle as his hands. He pressed one finger down hard on House's thigh.

House gritted his teeth through the pain. "Fuck, Wilson just stop _now_." At the continuation of hands on his leg, he pushed James' shoulders, sending him back crashing into the coffee table.

"Ow! Jesus!" Wilson rubbed the small of his back, where he had collided with the hard edge of the table. "That was a bit of an over-reaction, don't you think?"

"No. James, just leave me in peace."

Wilson raised himself from the floor to sit on the couch. "I can stay for a bit, make sure you're ok, help you out with anything."

"Are you deaf? I told you to get out!"

Wilson took the cane and the Vicodin to House, then went home to his loving wife, clean home and another anxious, sleepless night.


	2. Chapter 2

House laughed inside his head at how his apartment would look to most people; takeout cartons scattered around, the previous few days clothes hanging off the back of the couch, a glass of scotch, along with it's empty bottle, and two smooth round Vicodin containers. One was the empty from last night, and one filled with new little white pills. Droplets of water ran down the side of the scotch glass, making a ring on the dark wood of the table. The TV was the only light in the room, casting a flicking glow. The sound was down, and House, laid with his head on the arm rest, stared at the pictures as he drifted off to sleep.

The remaining muscle in his thigh twitched, jerking him back to wakefulness. The same show was on TV, still in the same segment, House had not been asleep for more than 5 minutes. The phone rang, sudden and shrill in the empty apartment, and House squeezed his eyes shut, willing away the pain that had begun throbbing in his head – a rhythmic accompaniment melody held by his leg.

He lifted the receiver and mumbled something between "House" and "Hello".

"Can I come over?"

"Why?" House heard Wilson sigh across the phone line. "Ok."

"Thanks."

House sat up and rubbed his eyes, wishing he was more awake; if he had been more awake, at least he might have been able to tell if he really had heard something like a sob when Wilson hung up the phone.

The knock at his door came sooner than he expected. House checked the clock; Wilson must have been in the area to get here this soon. "Door's open."

Wilson didn't talk. House heard the door being opened, footsteps, then the door closing but Wilson didn't talk. If it weren't for the thickness of his breathing, House would've thought he had turned round and left again. He ran over possibilities in his head. The last time Wilson had been here, House had screamed at him and pushed him into the coffee table. Conversations at work had been stoic. Now Wilson was standing behind him for no apparent reason, without saying a word. Footsteps sounded again, and House heard the refrigerator being opened, beer bottles clinking and being opened. Footsteps returning, bottles being added to those already on the table, a pained sound from the back of Wilson's throat and finally material brushing material as his friend sat down next to him.

"You weren't at work today." House decided to go with the fairly safe observation.

"I had…things to take care of."

"Divorce?"

Wilson made a noise that was similar to laughter, only more painful. "No. I had to ID someone…a body…" House waited for him to continue at his own pace. "I didn't think I'd even be able to recognise him."

House felt Wilson's shoulder shaking, pressed against his own. "Your brother." Before he knew what was happening, House found himself wrapping his arms around Wilson. He wasn't crying, just shaking. Tremors ran through his body and his teeth clacked together between breaths. He felt so fragile. House was afraid he would break him.

Slowly, the shaking subsided and House was left with Wilson in his arms, neither man quite sure what to do. Almost reluctantly, James pulled away and instantly missed the warmth of another person's skin. He pressed his calf against House's.

"I'm sorry."

"I say that to people every day when I tell them they're dying. Never realised how lame it sounds." Wilson felt, more than saw, House smile.

"It might not be the best time to bring it up, but I'm sorry for more than just what happened to your brother."

"I know. I don't know why you think that's worth anything though," said Wilson sadly.

"Do you think it's worth something?" House's finger's rested softly on Wilson's thigh.

"Not coming from you. Over and over, you're always the same. If you were sorry you'd change things."

"It doesn't quite work that way."

"Then I don't wanna play anymore, ok? None of it…I don't want to have to care. I quit it all." Wilson was trembling again, his voice coming out in bursts of volume that diminished every time from the effort of holding back tears.

"You can't."

"Why the hell not?"

"'Cus who else am I going to find to put up with all my crap?" House looked down at his hands, and at Wilson's fingers clasped around them. "And because I don't want to let you go. I'm a spoilt brat, Wilson; I will get what I want."

"House, you can't deny how fucked up everything about our friendship is." Wilson pulled away his hand. He didn't move his leg.

"That doesn't mean it's not working."

"How is this working? Half the time I wish I didn't even know you. God! My brother died today and you still can't talk about anything but yourself, all you're doing is making me feel worse. Part of me is screaming that I just need to stay away from you." For the first time today, tears spilled down Wilson's cheeks. "He died without me getting to talk to him, to see him. I lost 9 years with my brother. And instead of grieving with my parents or talking to my wife I'm here, having a conversation that isn't even a real conversation because we're aren't really talking about it. How the hell is this working?"

"Because you aren't talking to your wife, or grieving with your parents. I don't care if you feel like your life is falling down, James. Things will stay as they are because we both need it. It is working. It's working because you're here."


End file.
